It took me eight months (!), but I finally found a new pair of sneakers. Behold, the Ahnu Sugar Venture Lace in Twilight. (A mouthful, but not as delightfully free-associative as the Hoka One One Speedgoat 2 in Peacoat/Ceramic.)I don’t love them, but I’ve only really loved one pair of shoes. They were high-top Chuck Taylors with flames, the perfect accessory for any Catholic school uniform, and the answer to years of mom-approved white Reebok Princesses.
I have another pair of shoes that I want to love. When I graduated from college I bought myself a commemorative pair of 14-eye Cherry Red Doc Martens. Seven years and as many bloody ankles later, and I’ve still never broken them in. They live in a plastic under-bed storage bag they doubles as a lounge for my cat. These days, I wish I’d bought a more modest six or eight-eye black boot, something a little less flashy, a lot less Ronald McDonald. (Or Miley Cyrus). But I just can’t seem to sell them. They’ve moved with me to six apartments across three states. They are a durable symbol of youthful silliness, ass-kicking boots for someone who kicked-ass at college humanities.
Until this evening, it never occurred to me to google “Dr. Martens break in.” The internet is rife with stories and advice, including debates about burning and hammering them. I will do neither. I’m wearing them now in bed, twisting my heels until the leather squeals. Maybe in another 8 months they'll be ready for work.